The Lost Bet: I
by S. Faith
Summary: You win some, you lose some. Yes, even you, Mark Darcy.


**The Lost Bet: I**

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 2,250  
Rating: M / R  
Summary: You win some… you lose some. Yes, even _you_, Mark Darcy.  
Disclaimer: Jeezy Pete, _so_ not my characters.  
Notes: A silly peanut prompt.

* * *

"What do you mean, _lost_?"

"I mean exactly what it sounds like I mean." Low chuckle. "You'd better practise your moves, old man."

"I can't have lost."

"You did, and you have." He patted his friend on the shoulder. "See you next month."

Lost. Inconceivable that he should have lost. And now… inconceivable that he should have to pay up.

…

"I hear we have a special treat tonight," came the low, anticipatory murmur from beside her at the table. She turned to fix her querulous gaze upon him.

"What kind of 'special treat'?" she asked.

He chuckled. "The sort of special treat resulting from a lost bet."

"Oh, God. Surely not here in the restaurant!"

"Indeed here."

She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her laughter. "Oh, God," she said again. "I cannot _wait_ to see this." There was only a chair in the area that had obviously been deemed the stage, and her mind did a bit of a reel at the thought of what could possibly be in store, related to her friend's husband's work. "This has got to be why Magda was so eager to get us here. Or rather… Jeremy."

"Oh yes. Of that I am certain." He grinned, gazing thoughtfully at the stage area. "This setup reminds me of something, but I'm not jinxing it by saying a thing."

"Oh, Tom, tell me. Please."

The house lights dimmed. He brought a finger up to place it upon her lips. "Shh. I think it's about to start."

Magda's husband Jeremy came forward to speak, thanking everyone for attending and for supporting such a good, charitable cause. There was a disturbance beside her, and she looked over to see her other friends, Sharon and Jude, were belatedly arriving to the table.

"Did we miss anything?" whispered one.

"Not yet," she whispered in return.

"And without further ado," boomed Jeremy's voice from the stage, "a special treat for you before we really get things started, so I hope you've all had a chance to have a drink." Polite laughter from the audience. "Never let it be said that I will not hold you to a bet, even if made in jest, or especially if made in supreme, arrogant confidence." He looked off to the side. "Maestro? Music please." He looked back to the audience, which she realised had grown quite large. "Enjoy."

Over the sound system, a song began playing, one that she did not recognise at first, but that Tom evidently did. With an enthusiastic clap of his hands, he exclaimed: "Oh, _Jesus_! I was right! It's fucking _Flashdance_!"

Out onto the stage, onto which a stark spotlight shone, stepped a figure in a shirt, tie, and suit trousers. Very slim and trim, and, much to her delight (and Tom's too, she was sure), masculine. He seemed very stiff in his movements, and from beside her, Tom shouted, "Shake it!"

The man on the stage seemed to glower but she could not tell for sure; actually, she couldn't quite determine _who_ he was, as the spot was not fully raised, but focused on his body. Tom's words of encouragement did seem to wake the man up a little—maybe if he did not perform this dance/routine satisfactorily, he'd have to do it again—and he started to move in time with the music. His dancing mostly consisted of stepping from side to side and shaking his hips, and he wasn't doing too badly at it. When he turned to face away from the audience, she could see that he had a very attractive (and surely taut and firm) bottom under those trousers, and she could not tear her eyes away. He reached up to tug at the tie at his neck, turned to present his face in profile, and a cheer went up all around her as the tie came loose and he dropped it to the ground; he was in fact going to 'take it off.'

She laughed, clapping in he convivial spirit that had built up around this poor man's humiliation… and as he turned back around, dipping his head down and into the spotlight, she gasped.

She knew him… pert, tight bottom and all.

As he undid the cuffs and peeled the shirt open, her mind felt like it was about to shatter, trying to reconcile what she knew of him with what she was seeing now. She brought her hands up to her mouth, in equal measure horrified and fascinated, particularly when Jeremy stepped out to drench the remaining vest with a full ice-bucket's worth of water, revealing more fully the details of the toned chest beneath said vest.

"Fwaw!" said Tom, though the din around them made it very difficult to hear. "Where have they been hiding this man?!"

"In Grafton Underwood," she mumbled to herself, "under a horrible reindeer jumper."

The spotlight broadened, and she saw his face fully illuminated now; there was no question in her mind that the man with the water-soaked vest, the man currently tugging at the waist of his trousers, was Malcolm and Elaine Darcy's sainted son, Mark. Another tug, in time with the crescendo of the music, and the vest was gone, and the light glistened on his pectorals; with a spin and a yank he revealed that the trousers were of the tear-away variety. In that split second, with a wild shout rising up around them—Tom and Jude hooted, and she thought Sharon might swoon back into her chair—the trousers came away, revealing quite shapely, toned legs, a more perfect bottom than she could have ever imagined, and—

"Holy _fuck_, I am going to fucking _faint_," said Tom, fanning himself with his hand as Mark turned back around to face the audience. "Look at those… _pants_!"

They were black, snug and shiny, coming down to about mid-thigh, and the way the spotlight highlighted every high point, it quite honestly left very little to the imagination. She cleared her throat, looked up from the study of his tight pants, only to find he was looking quite intently at _her_.

The song concluded to raucous applause, and he tore his gaze away with a curt bow and a speedy exit, stage left.

"They will never be able to top that," said Tom breathlessly as they sat back into their seats once more. "_Never_. A triumph of human form. Mag_nif_icent."

It was a triumph of something, anyway; she recalled Mark's extreme sense of reserve and dignity even while wearing the goofy reindeer jumper, and she marvelled in (and was impressed by) the fact that his sense of duty in holding up his end of the wager had overridden his own personal discomfort. She thought of Tom, or even her boss, Daniel Cleaver, happily performing such a thing half-naked on a lark, but Mark? For him, there must have been a true sense of shame. And yet… he'd done it anyway.

"Bridge? What's wrong?"

She snapped to attention at the sound of her name. "Yes?"

Jude asked with a grin, "Did you not appreciate that?"

"Oh, sorry," she said. The truth was that she did appreciate it… more than she felt comfortable appreciating it, given who he was, and the poor opinion he held of her. "Yes. Of course."

Tom raised a brow; she knew this meant he would not press for details now, but most assuredly would later, which she would need to avoid. She pushed back her chair. "Be back," she said, grabbing her handbag, though she had no intention of returning to the table.

…

The bet was fulfilled, and as he slipped into his own trousers and shirt, Mark wanted nothing more than to go home and hide. "But you did so well," said Jeremy. "You heard the applause."

"I'm utterly humiliated."

"Mark, I doubt anyone knows, remembers or _cares_ it's you."

"I can guarantee there's at least one person who does," he said, raising a foot to tie one shoe, then the other. "I'm pleased only that this will be a boon for charity. Good night."

He slipped into his jacket, patting the pocket to ensure his wallet had not fallen out, before exiting into the hallway, to the sound of Jeremy muttering, "Wet blanket." In Mark's effort to escape unseen, however, he launched himself directly into the path of the one person he'd hoped not to encounter.

"Hi," she said, her cheeks blazing red. He waited for the scalding criticism to come. "I, um… heard you lost a bet."

"Yes," he replied brusquely.

"Very brave of you," she said with a cheery smile. "You did _really_ well, though, I thought."

"Um," he said, quite at a loss; it didn't seem she was being facetious at all. Instead of taking justifiable revenge for his extreme rudeness at the Turkey Curry Buffet, she was trying to make him feel better. "Thank you."

"My friends thought so too," she said encouragingly.

Reluctantly, he said, "I believe you were sitting next to the man encouraging me to, um, 'shake it'."

She tinted pink again. "Yes. That's Tom. He can't help himself." After a moment she asked, "Though what was the point of the chair?"

"The…? Oh, yes. Well, I thought that was a bit too undignified for words. Jeremy got his bucket of water on me all the same, though. Thought I was going to slip and fall there a couple of times."

"You did really well," she said again. "Never noticed you nearly slip." She tinted pink, which made him wonder what she did notice, and then she smiled again. "But really, you did credit to yourself, and it _was_ for charity, after all."

He cleared his throat in lieu of not knowing exactly what to say. "Thank you," he said again, feeling quite stupid at being for such a loss of words. "That's very kind of you."

She beamed a lovely smile; she really was quite attractive when not clad in a carpet. "You're welcome." After a beat she added, "It's really too bad we got off on the wrong foot there on the New Year."

He could not help feeling the same, and he nodded. "Dinner," he said suddenly. "Will you join me for dinner?"

She grinned lopsidedly. "Yeah," she said. "I think I will."

…

It wasn't clear to Bridget whether _this_ was the real man beneath the cool, snobbish veneer at the Turkey Curry Buffet, or whether the charity striptease had humbled him somewhat, but the dinner they ended up having together, while nothing spectacular, was comfortable and friendly, and definitely the beginning of something quite nice. Whether it was a friendship or something more was yet to be determined, though the mental image of Mark Darcy on the stage wearing nothing more than a tight pair of shiny pants definitely put a tick in the 'or something more' column.

Another for the 'or something more' column? The insistence that he bring her all the way back to her building, instead of just foisting her off into a minicab to be rid of her. There _was_ something to be said for the kindness of a gentleman, she supposed with a smile.

"We're here, I think," his voice interrupted her thoughts, as the cab slowed to a halt; indeed it was the familiar brick façade of her building.

"Yes," she said.

"I'll walk you to the door," he said, then paid the driver and asked him to wait.

The two of them were just crossing the walk and stepping up onto the stoop when another voice shouted, "There you are!" It was Tom, and he looked somewhat disgruntled, even almost murderous, with his arms folded imperiously across his chest. "'Be back,' indeed." He turned his gaze towards Mark. "What is the meaning of this? What are your intentions?"

Bridget chuckled. "Tom, meet Mark. Tom was your heckler, Mark."

Tom blinked as it sunk in who exactly it was accompanied his friend. "Oh, it's _you_," he said, his tone quite changed to one that was almost giddy. "You were fan_tas_tic."

She could see, even by the faint streetlight, that Mark was turning quite red around the collar. "Thank you."

"We met in the hall," explained Bridget. "I'd decided to leave. I think we both had. So we decided to have dinner." After a beat she added, "Well, Mark asked me to dinner."

"We were worried sick," said Tom with a wink. However, due to their relative positions, Mark did not see the wink and looked a bit stricken.

"I'm sorry," Mark said. "I didn't mean to cause your friend to worry."

Tom's brows rose. "It's quite all right… this time," he said with mock sternness.

She suddenly wanted the night not to end, and asked Mark, "Want to come up?"

"I'd love to," said Tom.

She gave Tom a decidedly grim look. "Not you," she said between gritted teeth.

"Thank you," said Mark with a small smile, "but I can't. However, if you're free for dinner… maybe on Friday?"

Inexplicably she looked to Tom, who burst out with a laugh. "You hardly need _my_ permission, Bridge, although…" He waggled his brows.

She turned quickly to Mark, willing the flush of her embarrassment away, to no success. "I'd love to."

He smiled in response. "I'll pick you up, then."

She ruminated on how quickly things could change, and she could not rein in her own smile. She was very much looking forward to Friday.

_The end._


End file.
